Chapter 44
Allison
Oh, let’s see, then there’s the Childress trial getting closer every day with so much to do, dealing with Finley’s craziness, and of course Luke’s betrayal. I can feel it all wearing me down, knotting my neck and shoulders, pressing behind my eyes.
I throw on my workout gear, head into the garage, and punch the door opener.
Having learned a hard lesson about garages, I hang back a moment, letting my eyes scan the surroundings for hostile actors.
I quickly spot Finley’s SUV parked by the curb.
He is standing on the sidewalk, coat flapping in the wind, his face raw with the kind of desperation I never thought I’d see on him.
“I know, I know. Just hear me out,” he says.
I remove my earbuds. “Fin, for God’s sake. It’s not even six in the morning.”
“I can’t sleep,” he says, approaching me but stopping cautiously short.
“I can’t stop thinking about us. Can we at least talk about this?
I know, believe me, I know I’ve made mistakes.
I was stupid. I didn’t realize how lucky I was to have you.
” He puts his hands together. “I promise I’ll never make that mistake again.
Ever. I’ll do counseling. I’ll do anything. ”
His words, the sound of his voice, twist something inside me.
God help me, part of me still aches for him—the man I always wanted, the man I married, the man I thought would always be mine.
My body remembers the warmth of his hand at the small of my back, the way he used to make me laugh in the middle of the most ordinary days.
That’s the cruelest part: My love for him never really left.
It sits inside me, raw and stubborn and noisy.
He senses a dent in my armor. “I needed a slap in the face. I deserved it. You should probably slap me for real.” An excuse to draw closer.
He turns his head, exposing his cheek, freshly shaved.
I actually prefer his stubble, the five-o’clock shadow.
“Slap me. Punch me. Kick me. I deserve that and more.”
I can’t deny that on some level, I enjoy his groveling, his hurt, after all the distress and humiliation he caused me.
The years I swallowed my suspicions instead of spitting them out.
The nights I stared at him across the dinner table, wondering who else was on his mind but saying nothing.
Wondering, when we were intimate, if he was imagining another woman.
“I know we can make this right,” he says. “I still believe in us.” He stares at me, blue eyes wide, pleading.
A part of me wants to step forward, to let him hold me. Instead, I lock my arms tighter across my chest, digging my nails into my sleeves. That pain steadies me.
Us, he said. It takes two spouses to destroy a marriage.
I know I failed us, too, that my silence was as deadly as his lies.
I also kept a secret—that I knew his. And I did nothing.
Never confronted him. Never forced him to look me in the eye and tell me the truth.
I was stubborn, prideful. As long as I pretended not to know, I was just a woman whose trust was betrayed.
If I acknowledged the adultery, I’d have to choose between knowingly staying with a cheater or being alone.
So I buried my head in the sand, played dumb.
I watched our marriage wither and die without fighting for it.
I can tell myself all of that. The chance that he’s learned his lesson, that we can get back to a place we once occupied, now that he’s been appropriately chastened.
But despite what my brain tells me, my feet stay planted firmly.
The harder he tries to pull me toward him, the more desperately I resist, the more I realize that the rip will never heal.
“We’re past that point,” I say. “We need to find a time to tell Gray. Probably this summer, because he’s not coming home for spring break. In terms of finances, the money, the property, we can split everything equally. But we’re not getting back together.”
I fit my earbuds back in my ears and start down the sidewalk.
“You’ve changed,” he says.
“God, I hope so.” I don’t look back.
“This isn’t over,” he calls to me.
I don’t respond. But I’m sure he’s right.
I’m showered and ready for a long day at the office when Harp buzzes me on my phone.
“Hey. I promised you info on Trinity Casto, a full workup. Sorry it’s taken so long.”
“Your timing’s good,” I say, “if you have something for me.”
“I didn’t think I did at first,” she says. “All I found was kind of a messed-up childhood. Her mother went to prison when Trinity was seven and Max was four. Dad divorced her, moved the kids away, and got a restraining order against her.”
“Oof. That’s rough. Why’d she go to prison?”
“That’s where it gets interesting,” says Harp. “She pled guilty to a DUI.”
“A DUI.” I’m backing my SUV down the driveway but stop. “Wait. Don’t tell me.”
“You got it,” she says. “Trinity’s mother was Carmela Muller, the woman who hit Luke with her car.”